Seasons of CSI
by CynthiaLunar
Summary: Never leave your writing out in the open, someone will read it. One slip on Greg's behalf leaves the investigators with some interesting reading material. Prose and poetry.


  
  
Disclaimer: C.S.I. does not belong to me, the lowly common fanfiction writer. C.S.I. does belong to CBS, Bruckheimer and other affiliates that I cannot think of off the top of my head.  
  
A/N: This collection of poetry and prose doesn't fall anywhere specific to the CSI cannon, though I would say mid-season four, prior to Butterflies. Not that the timing is exceptionally important. Feel free to guess which CSI will be which season. 

* * *

On the couch it lay. Being the first to arrive in the break room that night Nick was the first to notice the book. With a sideways glance as if to question its existence he calmly walked towards it. Despite not having a camera in his hands he took a mental snap shot of the book. Nick grasped the book by the edge, flipping it open to the first page to reveal inked cursive writing.

Sara was next to enter the room, making a beeline for where Greg hid his coffee stash. Her hand snaked in behind the couch, pulling out the press-sealed pouch. She kept her gaze on the smiling Nick even as she moved to make coffee. "What do you have there?"

"Poetry," Nick replied, continuing to flip through the pages and but reading the poems more often then just skimming them.

"Ooh, Nick reads poetry," Sara teased, a toothy grin assuring him she meant no malice. "Let me guess - Dr. Seuss? Okay, I'll give you more credit then that - Poe? Elliot?"

The coffee started to percolate in the background but Nick paid no attention to it; instead he clapped the book shut and lifted it up so Sara could see the plain hard cover. "I don't read poetry but if you were to leave yours out in the open like Greg did I would read it," Nick explained cheekily, waving the notebook like a hot commodity.

"Greg lab rat cum poet?" Sara scoffed, putting her Styrofoam cup down so she could snatch the book from Nick. He didn't put up a fight though, moving in to read more over Sara's shoulder as she perused for her own interest. "When did you find this?"

"Just now. It was on the couch, Greg probably forgot to take it with him after his break." Nick motioned to the couch with his head as Sara flipped a page.

"Too bad for him because this is going into my evidence collection," Sara commented, smirking slightly.

"I was thinking along those same lines," Nick added, throwing in a grin. So engrossed with their plotting they didn't hear or see Gil and Catherine entering.

"What were you thinking?" Despite the accusing tone to Gil's question Sara and Nick looked up looking anything but chagrined.

"Oh, just poetry," Nick commented casually, shrugging a shoulder to make himself look additionally convincing. It wasn't working though, what with his grin still on his face.

That made Gil's attention jump from his freshly poured cup of coffee to the subject at hand. "I'm particularly fond of nineteenth century poetry. And you?"

"Modern," Sara quipped, waiting a heartbeat to continue. "Sanders to be exact."

"Never heard of him," Gil admitted. He let his words pause at that, taking a sip of his coffee.

"You should know him, he works in your lab," Sara deadpanned. Gil turned an interesting shade of purple, what looked like taking too big a sip, blushing and paling all at once. Nick laughed out loud but smothered it once Gil glared at him.

"First vying to be a CSI, now he's going for poet laureate of the Las Vegas Police Department?" Catherine asked, delicately raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

"I guess he likes aiming high," Sara mentioned, flipping the page she was reading. Catherine pressed in for a closer look, unintentionally jostling Gil's arm in the process.

"So, does he have a lot?" Catherine inquired, curiosity getting the better of her much like her colleagues.

"He has most of the book filled but he doesn't date anything. Who knows how often he writes," Nick pointed out. Catherine looked for herself, flipping the pages for Sara.

"Oh! We definitely need to read this!" Catherine exclaimed, her hand clamping around the edge of the page and book.

"Read what?" Sara asked eagerly.

"'Seasons of CSI' - or so Greg has titled it." Catherine spread the book flat open in her hands for everyone to see.

Gil had been doing his best, and had succeeded, to ignore the invasion of privacy but rising trepidation in his gut pushed him forth. "He wrote about us?"

"So it looks… Father Gil," Nick confirmed after reading the first verse.

"Pardon?" Gil didn't like the insinuation at all and it showed in his single word.

Sara was all smiles but she cleared her throat before reciting the open verse that she just finished reading:

_"Without time there is no day,  
no more months or any years.  
The seasons would fall like currents  
into the oceans, weightless.  
You give them life and purpose,  
trust and infinite wisdom.  
In turn they give solemn vows  
to serve you in highest form."_

Gil's eyes blinked deep in thought behind his glasses; "I'm Father Time?" he questioned quietly. In his mind's eye he beheld the age-old image of the figure, dressed in old but simple robes and flowing white hair.

"The way Greg describes it you fit it," Catherine commented, smiling as the imagery played in her mind. "You took chances on all of us, trusting us and in turn we trust you."

"You look pretty good for an old guy too," Nick added with a grin. Gil looked up sharply, his eyes narrowed and boring into Nick. Sara and Catherine caught each other's bemused expression and tightly pressed lips, trying to keep themselves from smiling or - worse - laughing.

"It's an honour, think of it that way," Sara interjected, putting her hand on Gil's arm to assure him. "We are honoured to work for you."

Gil wasn't entirely convinced, still reading the verse sceptically. "You say that now, after only seeing part of the story. I would hate for anyone to be misguided without knowing the whole story," he slowly said.

"Are you suggesting that we continue reading?" Catherine asked, jostled out of her reverie.

"Just to make sure I'm not the only one who gets pointed at," Gil responded. "Sara, shall you continue with Greg's masterpiece?"

Warrick stopped before crossing the threshold of the break room. He had followed his nose to the scent of Greg's coffee to not find him anywhere in the room. But having heard the technician's voice mentioned in passing he watched suspiciously the scene before him, four C.S.I.s crowded around a notebook. Shaking his head but not displacing his rueful smile he turned away from the room and back into the hall.  
  
_TBC..._


End file.
